


Enough

by ChibiStarr



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Melkor has complicated feelings about Námo, Non-Explicit Sex, Námo is strange and Melkor loves it, Some metaphysics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 21:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14577933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiStarr/pseuds/ChibiStarr
Summary: Melkor hates Námo. At least most of the time. But that doesn't stop him from falling into the other Vala's bed now and then.





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This story is part of a collaboration and a sequel to VitaBrevisArsLong's own story.

"Enough," Melkor spat as the touch wandered over him once more, cold fingers trailing up his side, to his shoulder, and then idly playing with his neck in a carefully deliberate path. For that alone he would have been annoyed, the planning that went into such a simple gesture, but the owner of the fingers irked him far more deeply. He was ignored, the touch drawing slow, deep circles into his skin, and Melkor had to suppress a shiver. "I said _enough,"_ he repeated, his tone dipping into a growl.

 _:No,:_ came the whispered reply, a dry rasp against his mind, tasting of cobwebs and spun veils. The pressure increased, right over where the blood beat under his skin, not enough to cut off the flow but the first traces of dizziness began to work its way up his skull.

"Námo," he snarled in warning, his hand coming up to grip the other's.

But Námo was never, ever fazed by anything he did. In an instant his fingertips gripped the back of his neck, far tighter than any of his other touches so far and Melkor _groaned_ at the feeling, his heart starting to race as the other Vala held him in his grip. He could have broken it with ease, but he did not. Not while Námo's lips soon followed, placing kisses on his skin, the cold porcelain of his mask hard and unyielding while his icy lips nearly burned against his heated flesh. He writhed in the touch, yet was held still by the _force_ that pressed against him, both in hand and ëala. It was like a heavy fog, weightless yet thick, prickling all over with a stifling pressure that spoke of conviction, of fate that could not be undone.

A powerful grip worthy of one of the Aratar, but one Melkor could free himself from, if he tried.

Caught in the lull of Námo's ëala, in its wisps and deep echoes, Melkor missed Námo's free hand coming to wrap around his the front of his neck until it was too late. Suddenly the grip on him was fierce, robbing him of his breath and he gasped automatically in response, thrashing in Námo's arms in his rage. "This is not Mandos!" he said, his pale eyes blazing like starfire as his dug his nails deeply into Námo's hands, hard enough to pierce the skin. Enough to make him bleed.

 _"Wrong,"_ Námo replied, speaking with his lips for once. His voice was hardly more than a whisper, but the way the air shivered when he spoke told that the Lord of the Dead did not need to raise his voice to be heard and respected. "With me you are _always_ in Mandos, Melkor." His fingers wrapped tighter around Melkor's neck, right where the heavy links of Angainor used to rest.

Melkor always spat and raged, but Námo knew better. His could see all the paths their conversation could take, after all, and he knew which was the most likely one Melkor would choose. Even if the older Ainu absolutely hated what Námo did to him, he also craved it for reasons he could not fathom. Námo did not care about that, though, and was the only one of the other Valar who truly did not care about many of the whims and wishes of Melkor, simply observing without judgement. It was what always drew the other back to him, each and every time.

He could hear the breath rattling in Melkor's throat and the nails burying into his skin dug harder, and Námo finally let go. The gasp of air that followed seemed to shake the space around them and he felt Melkor going limp from the feeling, but in his mind's eye he could already see what the dark Vala was going to do next. Melkor whirled, turning onto his back and lunging for his throat, but Námo had moved as well, grabbing Melkor's wrist and holding it down next to his head while Námo quickly climbed on top of him, using his weight to pin him down.

For a moment they stared at each other. Námo's hair fell about them like a curtain, shielding them from the rest of the world and tangling about the bed in raven-dark waves, like threads binding them together, wrapping them in the confines of their own tiny, personal reality. Melkor's eyes glared upward, blazing in anger and a whole host of other emotions he did not bother to name, but as he gazed upon the expressionless mask Námo wore, into the black depths where his eyes should be, the garment shielding everything but Námo's mouth from view, he felt irritation. "Take that off," he ordered, his free hand coming up to grab it.

 _:You already know what I look like,:_ Námo's lips did not move, but the voice in his mind was clear nonetheless.

"Take it _off,_ I said! I want to look at you." What did it matter that he knew? He wanted to _see_ him _now!_

Much to his surprise, his request was granted as suddenly the mask came free in his hand, leaving the Lord of the Dead exposed. Melkor tossed it aside impatiently and reached out to stroke his fingers across Námo's face, marveling in the sight for a moment as he always did. Námo had always been a strange one compared to the rest of the Valar; his skin was so pale and thin that Melkor could see right through it even without his divine gaze, his bones stark and white against the flimsy covering over them. Melkor traced the shape of his skull, right up to where his eyes should have been, if Námo ever decided to have eyes. There were not even sockets under his skin indicating where they would have been, the area was simply smooth, and he stroked there again and again, ever intrigued by the sight.

"I was always amazed by how different you are," he murmured, his voice much calmer than it had been moments ago. "Why the other Valar never saw…" he trailed off, scowling at his own troublesome thought.

Námo did not reply. It was not something that needed a reply nor called for one. Instead he simply pressed their lips together, capturing Melkor in a deep kiss while his free hand traced idly up to his collar, caressing the bones he found there. Then without any warning he dug his fingers _into_ them, listening to Melkor's resulting cry tearing from his throat and into his mouth. Melkor gripped him with his free hand, his nails scratching down his shoulders, forcing him closer.

Melkor was always like fire, so intensely burning, living so much in his current moment that he far outshone any other being in Arda. Simply being around him was almost enough to catch his essence, to feel the rare warmth flowing into his own veins. Námo couldn't entirely hold back his own moan as their bodies pressed together, and with a few quick movements he had jerked Melkor's robes aside, ignoring the protests of the other.

"Don't you da— _aah!"_ Melkor's grip threatened to tear his robes as the other Vala threw back his head and yelled, yet he did not push Námo away. His hips jerked up into Námo's touch, almost unwillingly, and his trapped hand tried once more to free itself.

Pressing his fingers harder into Melkor's collarbone, Námo waited until he heard another cry before starting off on a hard, fast pace that tore the older Vala between the sensations of pain and pleasure. He gasped a little, burying his face into Melkor's shoulder as they moved together, feeling the heat rising in him from the moans and the ëala reaching for his own. Melkor always felt chaotic and twisting, his essence burning both hot and cold, so loud and full of _life_ that pulled the threads of Námo's own lethargic ëala into a storm of energy that flowed between them. He could hear the air crackling with their Power, but ignored it.

The heat was stifling, his hair trapping it between their writhing bodies. Melkor's hand gripped it tightly, pulling, and Námo dragged his nails across to Melkor's other bones to start his work fresh there. All the while he moved, thrusting so deep into Melkor that he thought he could feel the other's very core beneath him, coiling around him and lighting his nerves on _fire._

The ecstasy that came upon him finally made him cry out, darkness descending on the room as his ëala danced and broke free of his confining grip with Melkor's making the stones crack around them. He barely noticed, caged between Melkor's arm and chest as they both rode out the throes of their passion with one another, their shadows so tightly entangled that it was impossible to tell one Vala from the other. The fire still burned, simmering beneath the surface, but even if for a moment, they could pause.

Melkor's nails dug very deliberately into his shoulder and his ëala prickled with ice-sharp needles. "I hate you," Melkor seethed, his voice barely more than a hiss.

Námo merely kissed him again, pressing his weight onto Melkor. And, as usual, Melkor allowed it.


End file.
